


Secondhand Grace

by lawsontl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angel Tablet, Angelic Grace, BAMF Castiel, Badass!Cas, Canonical Character Death, Episode Tag, Episode: s09e03 I'm No Angel, Episode: s09e09 Holy Terror, First Time, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Jossed, Kripked, M/M, Men of Letters Headquarters, Possession, Post-Episode: s09e09 Holy Terror, Wakes & Funerals, Wings don't work this way in canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 08:53:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lawsontl/pseuds/lawsontl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"You said it yourself. You screwed up everything you did as an angel. Well, here I am." Dean slaps his chest. "Your living, breathing screw-up, straight from Hell, one night only!"</em>
</p><p> </p><p>After Gadreel murders Kevin, Castiel helps Dean pick up the pieces. In the process, he picks up a few pieces of his own.</p><p>Many thanks to Foxy for the salt-and-burn on my typos, grammar, and plot weaknesses! All remaining mistakes are because I am incapable of leaving well enough alone after my beta finishes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secondhand Grace

Absorbing Theo's grace is a bit like wearing stolen clothing; it fills the need but always feels like it belongs to someone else. Castiel refuses to think about why that is.

_Kevin Tran, Luigi Ponzi, Justin Hunt, Aaron Webber…_

He's still trying to tailor the metaphysical fit as he walks back to town on the gravel berm edging the railroad tracks. The dried scrub and abandoned warehouses don't much make for pleasing scenery, but at least they help measure progress. He never needed a watch before, and he doesn't need one now to know that he's completely missed his shift at the Gas-n-Sip. More than anything, he needs to bring proper closure to his brief time as a human.

_Kevin Tran, Luigi Ponzi, Justin Hunt, Aaron Webber…_

Aside from a certain tentative pride in how he managed those affairs, it would also be incredibly inconvenient if Nora filed a missing person's report. It's bad enough with the Host of Heaven after him. He doesn't want to add the police department to the fray.

_Luigi Ponzi, Justin Hunt, Aaron Webber…_

With grace restored, he's once again receiving the full onslaught of conversations between his brothers and sisters. It's a bit like drinking from a fire hose. So it's not surprising that he nearly misses the disappearance of a single name, and, as soon as it registers, Castiel stumbles to a halt.

Kevin Tran has been murdered.

Castiel doesn't entertain other explanations for why the boy's name would drop from the litany; he just reaches inside his suit jacket. Only there's no cell phone to be found because Malachi's thugs destroyed it.

The feeling of frustration is so strong that his muscles tense, hands clenching by his hips. The steel rails call out for punishment, but he diverts the inconvenient rush of emotion by kicking up a squall of dust and gravel. It feels remarkably satisfying for something with no practical purpose, and it reinforces his decision to mimic that particular human action.

Back to something like calm, Castiel closes his eyes and tries to will himself to Dean. But no matter how he strains, the wings will not unfurl. They're undamaged. Theo was here before the angels fell, or he had boasted as much, so his wings should work. But Theo must have been drained, if the scars on his face were any indication. He must have been cut off from Heaven long before it actually closed. Sighing, Castiel straightens up and resumes the tedious journey.

"You are a liability to your friends." He continues to plod forward in conversation with himself. "You should conserve your energy." He very carefully avoids thinking about the fact that his feet hurt. Cuffed upright while being tortured, walking on uneven ground in impractical shoes? Perfectly logical to feel discomfort.

_**Abomination.** _

He walks for another half hour before he finally reaches an intersection. Just beyond a swampy patch, there's a filling station, and he veers toward it, grateful that it not only has a payphone, but that the phone is in working order.

Dean doesn't answer, nor does Sam.

Castiel tries Dean again, and again, with no luck, then he slams the receiver back into place with more force than is strictly necessary.

"You should stop calling." Castiel may no longer need sustenance or shelter, but that doesn't mean money won't be of use. And Dean has made it very clear that he does not want his help. No doubt, he's rejecting the calls. He's probably busy torturing the boy's murderer or killing him. This is Dean, after all.

Castiel leans against the peeling stucco wall of the filling station, scanning the surrounding fields for inspiration. None comes until a battered pickup pulls in. Shouting a greeting, Castiel waves like he's spotted an old friend. The driver tilts his head curiously and pulls over to him instead of sidling up to the pump.

"Can I help ya, pal?"

Castiel offers his hand through the window for a shake, but the man hesitates, eyes narrowing as he takes in the blood-crusted suit. Castiel waits patiently for the inevitable decency of all souls to kick in, and, after just seconds, the man returns the gesture. Castiel yanks until the man's head collides with the door frame, knocking him unconscious. With a dusty creak of protest, the truck begins to lope forward. They barely avoid a collision with the gas pump before Castiel manages to climb in.

The engine sputters as he takes the wheel, and, panicked, Castiel checks the gas gauge. It's nearly on empty but still full enough that he should be able to get to the Gas-n-Sip. He can decide on his next step once he's dealt with Nora.

Thankfully, there's no traffic to speak of. This is a blessing, because he has little experience with driving beyond watching Dean, and he's pretty sure that Dean's not the best role model. A few nerve-wracking moments pass as he gets the feel of the pedals and wheel, angelic reflexes averting several likely crashes before he figures out how to point the truck in a mostly straight line down the pockmarked road. He manages it just about the same time the driver begins to come around.

"My apologies," Castiel says by way of greeting. "I promise I won't harm you." He glances over, and the driver is prodding the ridge of his forehead, a shaggy, overgrown eyebrow matted with clotting blood.

"Yeah. Good start on that promise."

"I need your vehicle to get to Rexford."

"Rexford's only eight miles. Mighta just asked for a ride." The springs in the torn bench seat squeak as he slowly repositions himself, hauling a stained lap belt in place when he's done.

"I didn't have time to convince you."

"Somebody dyin' or somethin'?" The man is entirely casual as he reaches for a cell phone sitting in a pocket beneath the radio. Castiel snatches it away, and the car swerves as he tries to dial one-handed. "Hey, whoa there, fella! Try not to get us killed 'fore we get there, would ya?"

Castiel nods, dropping the phone on the seat and gripping the steering wheel with both hands. He takes a moment to settle his breathing before he speaks again. "What's your name?"

"Ed."

"Ed, I need you to call this number." He recites Dean's phone from memory, not really expecting Ed to play along, but the man surprises him, picking up the phone and punching in the numbers.

"No answer." He glances between Castiel and the phone, his jaw set in internal debate. Castiel gives him a pleading look that doesn't seem to have an effect. Then, as quickly as he first reached for it, Ed returns the phone to the radio pocket. "That ain't a local call. Thought you was heading to Rexford."

"I am." The truck hits a bump, and the frame rattles like a dog shaking off water. It's barely quieted down again when a single voice sifts through the chorus in Castiel's head.

_Cas._

It's faint and rough, but it slams into him like a sledgehammer because it's Dean. Dean is praying.

Dean is praying for him.

Castiel slams on the brakes, heedless of everything but that voice. Ed's shouting again, one hand braced on the dash, the other already banging numbers on the cell phone. Castiel is peripherally aware of all of this, but none of it matters. His heart is pounding.

Dean.

Close.

Close enough to touch.

Castiel closes his eyes and reaches out.

A heartbeat later, he's in the bunker. He nearly collapses to the floor, wings tucking back with an agonizing convulsion. He tries to blink away the spots in his eyes, grabbing a pillar to hold himself upright until he can get his legs under him. The smell that greets him is foreboding, a sickly sweet mix of burnt meat and ozone. With nothing in front of him, Castiel hesitates just long enough to steel himself for what he knows he'll see when he turns around.

Kevin Tran's body is on the floor of the library. Panic takes over, human instinct propelling Castiel forward despite the soldier's urge to reconnoiter. Kevin was a prophet, for God's sake.

He stumbles towards the body, only stopping when he spots Dean just a few feet away. His back is against a bookcase, head bowed over sprawled legs, and he's not moving.

"Dean!" The panic shifts into terror that chills Castiel's blood, but Dean jerks upright at the shout. Heavy-lidded, his eyes seem barely able to focus.

"Cas?"

Castiel kneels on the floor beside him, taking Dean's head into his hands and checking for wounds, blood, anything. There's nothing, though, at least nothing more than the pungent tang of bourbon.

"Where is Sam?" Dean grimaces, looking away instead of answering. "Where's Sam?" Castiel turns Dean's head back, forcing him to look him in the eyes, and something in Dean snaps. His jaw twitches, nostrils flaring, then he bolts up from the floor. He nearly falls instead of making the dramatic departure he was no doubt expecting. Castiel grabs his arm in time to spare his dignity, but Dean tears himself free.

"I don't know." He leans over, propping himself up on a chair back and shaking so viciously that the chair actually rattles. He breathes heavily for a moment, but the shaking doesn't subside, and he kicks the chair hard enough that the heavy wooden table scrapes six inches across the floor. "I don't know!"

"Dean―"

Dean jabs a finger in Castiel's general direction. "Don't!"

"I was just going to suggest you tell me about the last time you saw him, maybe we can extrap―"

"Ezekiel!" Dean stalks in a loose circle, looking for an unknown something as he continues to speak. "Ezekiel, or the dick claiming to be him. He killed Kevin and took Sam and I fucking let him!" He picks up the chair and hurls it at the nearest pillar. The pillar is undamaged, but the chair splits down the middle, and Dean snatches half, banging and banging until every spindle has broken loose. A faint cloud of wood shavings and dust is still settling as he stares at the marble upright like it's a personal affront that it hasn't at least cracked. Then he drops the seat and walks over to the small table that holds a crystal decanter. He tosses the stopper aside and drinks straight from the decanter, slumping down to the floor.

Castiel decides not to poke the bear, instead, kneeling at Kevin's side and placing a palm on the boy's forehead.

"Can you fix him, Cas?"

"Not this. I'm sorry."

"Then why are you touching him?" Dean practically growls the accusation.

Refusing to take it as an insult, Castiel replies, "Trying to see if I can find any traces of who did it. Every angel has a unique signature, a kind of fingerprint, left by their--" He takes a deep breath, calming his stomach. "Left by their grace."

Dean says nothing, the only noise coming from his direction the occasional gurgle of the liquor in the carafe as he takes another drink. Eventually, his impatience wins out over Castiel's concentration. "Well?"

"No one I know." Castiel shakes his head, removing his hand and resting it on Kevin's chest. "Very old, very powerful, but not enough to be an archangel. Also—" He examines the destruction yet again. "Unaccustomed to wielding his power. This was… excessive."

"You said that about the gang bangers at the biker bar, too. Do you think he's part of the angel war?"

"No. This isn't violence for the sake of violence. It's as if he didn't know when to stop."

"Maybe he's a new recruit."

"That's possible."

Castiel lifts up the card on Kevin's chest, examining it. "Could your sheriff friend get us fingerprints? If we identify the vessel it could give us a clue about the angel inside it." Dean's only reply is a wince. Cas returns the card to Kevin's chest. "What?"

"It's Sam. The vessel."

"What… oh." Leaning against the table in the gap left by the chair, Castiel rubs his forehead. "I must admit I'm surprised to hear that. After Lucifer, I wouldn't have expected Sam would be willing to―"

"He wasn't, okay?" Dean takes another belt of the bourbon before continuing, voice hoarse. "Look, Sam was messed up. I told you that. But he was really messed up. Like, coma messed up. And I was desperate. I prayed for you, and when you didn't show, I prayed for any son of a bitch that would help, and that douchebag came. Said he'd been messed up bad in the fall, but he also offered to help." Cas has to take a seat. He's dreading what he knows he is going to hear next. "I was desperate, man."

And, as Dean explains how they tricked Sam into consenting to the possession, Castiel begins to feel sick. He bites back the first thing that comes to mind. And the second. Judgment will not help the situation. And it's not as if he's blameless himself.

"I'm sorry I didn't pay more attention. I might have noticed it wasn't him if I'd tended to needs other than my own."

Dean is silent again, staring at the brick walls. Finally, he slams the empty carafe onto the floor. "I gotta hit the head."

While Dean is gone, Cas returns his attention to Kevin's body, processing the little he knows. Not an archangel. A seraph, then. All of Heaven has at least a basic understanding of using their power to kill. No, that's not true. There are functionaries, angels whose sole purpose is to serve the organizational structure. And there are prisoners, locked away, their power suppressed by the cells that hold them. When Metatron banished the angels, did he banish all of them?

"Here."

A wad of white fabric block's Castiel's view of the room, followed by a brief rustling as Dean kneels on the floor to empty Kevin's pockets. Glad to understand his role in something, anything at all, with complete clarity, Castiel stands, removing his suit jacket before spreading out the sheet across from where Dean is finishing his task. Castiel takes the boy's feet when directed to do so, and, on a silent count, they lift together, transferring him to the makeshift shroud.

Dean hesitates, fingertips hovering over the finished edge of the sheet. "And you're sure there's nothing? No one?"

Castiel shakes his head. Anyone with sufficient power would have acted by now. He doesn't say the words out loud, though, because the head shake says everything.

For the next two hours, Dean is a model of grim efficiency. He carries stacks of firewood from the south side of the bunker and uses it as the base for the pyre, then heads into the surrounding woods with a chainsaw. He refuses help with the heavy work, getting progressively more smeared with mud and sawdust until he has stacked enough fuel to consume a human body. The only thing he allows Castiel to do is gather kindling, which is abundant in the neglected forest.

Unsurprisingly, Dean insists on carrying Kevin to the pyre himself, and Castiel hangs back to give him a chance to say goodbye alone. He knows it's time when Dean hands him a gas can. Cas soaks the lower layers while Dean handles the top. The only hesitation in the entire process is when Dean reaches the shroud, and it's a pause so brief that Cas could doubt it were it not for the pained look that passes over Dean's face. But it's gone as quickly as it first appeared, and Dean pours gas until the shroud is liberally soaked. He follows that up with a layer of salt, then waits for Castiel to get clear before flicking open his lighter. The distinctive grind of the wheel on flint is followed by a whoosh as the accelerant gorges on oxygen. Castiel can almost feel the fire's consciousness, a living, breathing presence there with him and Dean, tending to the body's final journey.

"Here."

Dean offers him a bottle of bourbon, and Cas lifts it in Kevin's direction before taking a drink. It burns its way down in an appropriately metaphoric fashion. Closing his eyes, he says a silent prayer, figuring, at this point, he might offend himself with it as much as Dean. The reality is, there's still no one listening that can make a difference, but the ritual of doing it feels right on the off chance that someone, somewhere, might care that the soul of a prophet has been released. He's careful not to give any indication of where they are, nor to ask for intervention, and he closes the prayer before opening his eyes.

He's taking no chances.

While Cas prayed, Dean took a seat on a tree stump, the raw edge of the chainsaw leaving a relatively smooth place to sit among the grizzled roots and leaves. There's not enough room for Cas to share it with him, and he's not interested in sitting on the ground. He's had enough of being cold, and he can feel it starting to seep in through his shirt despite the now raging fire.

Castiel rests a hand on Dean's shoulder, and the complete lack of a reaction tells him everything he needs to know. He says a brief goodbye to Kevin then heads back into the bunker.

**

After a stop in the bathroom to wash his hands, Castiel goes to Sam's room. He doesn't intend to rest; he intends to violate Sam's privacy as thoroughly as possible in the hope that there's some trace, some clue, about Ezekiel's identity.

But the room is as impersonal as a motel room. In fact, if Sam hadn't pointed it out as his own while showing Cas the way to the showers weeks before, he would've figured it for a spare. Perhaps an ad hoc office. No personal mementos are anywhere visible. The drawers, at least, have clothing that is familiarly Sam's, but nothing damning is tucked among the socks and undershirts. He pulls down every book, but there are no notes, no bookmarks, no hollowed out pages hiding secrets. The desk is empty aside from the password-locked laptop. The bed is neatly made with nothing tucked under the mattress or pillows. The television is modern, but the handful of videos beside it is covered in enough dust that he figures there's no point even checking the cases. He turns over the lamps, slides out the night table. Nothing.

In a last ditch effort, he closes his eyes, trying to center himself as much as possible, and that's when he begins to smell things: creatinine, bilirubin, all sorts of human waste enzymes that are normally cleared from a healthy body. He shouldn't be able to detect them at all, especially not with his power so compromised. This doesn't tell him a damned thing about Ezekiel other than that he's been lying about how much help he's given Sam, which they could have already guessed.

Next up is Kevin's room. He doesn't expect to find anything about Ezekiel in there, but this is the private space of a prophet. Anything in Kevin's hand needs to be protected—even if it is nothing more than a scribble on a sticky note—and Dean is in no condition to do the job.

It's only in gathering Kevin's work that Castiel realizes he cannot find the Angel tablet. Or any tablet, for that matter. A stop in the library only underlines the absence.

Back outside, darkness has fallen, and the smoke from the pyre has settled near the treetops like a layer of grungy fog. Flames continue to lick at wood and bone, but most of Kevin's body is now hidden in the center of the pyre, collapsing there by design so the embers can finish their meal.

Dean is no longer on the stump. He's moved closer to the pyre, a hair on this side of worryingly close, but he also looks too drunk to do much of anything dramatic. He's loose-limbed, features soft if expressionless, and his eyes reflect the firelight. That, more than the proximity, is unsettling. His eyes should be green, not red. Never red.

Castiel clears his throat, and Dean gives him a lazy nod in reply. "I'm sorry to bother you, Dean, but I can't find the tablets."

With a dark snort of amusement, Dean shoves out the half-empty bottle of bourbon. "He took 'em." His hand is surprisingly steady as he waits for Castiel to react.

Cas drinks, if for no other reason than to distract his stomach from the sinking feeling of doom that just landed square in the middle of it. It's only when he's handing the bottle back that he realizes it's not the only one. It's a different brand than the one they used to toast Kevin, not half as pleasant tasting. That bottle is lying empty behind the stump.

"You know, Dean, it's getting late, and—"

"—Not comin' in 'til the flames go out." Dean still doesn't look at him, but he does seem in control of his faculties. Cas nods, saying nothing, because there's really not much you can say that will make a difference when Dean is in a mood.

Back inside, his stomach gurgles. It's a feeling he's learned to recognize as hunger, so he ignores it. It will pass. Eventually, it will stop returning, and that's a relief. As tasty as food can be, the way hunger clouded his mind and drove his priorities was, at best, unsettling. He can't afford that now. He has work to do.

The fact that Ezekiel took the tablets is an important place to start. Now that Crowley and Naomi are out of the picture, the next generation is jockeying for position: Metatron, for instance. Then again, Metatron knows what all the tablets say, so the only reason he'd want them back is to make sure no one else knows. Which is actually a very logical argument for him playing a role in this disaster, despite a lack of evidence and Castiel's admitted bias against him.

Maybe the prophet's notes will reveal something that legitimately supports the theory. Castiel settles at the library table with everything he took from Kevin's room, takes a long, pleasing drink from a bottle of water, then gets to work.

**

_**Abomination.** _

Castiel jerks upright, and the feeling of disorientation is magnified by the piece of paper stuck to his cheek. He peels it off, horrified to see that the ink has smeared.

"I have drooled on prophecy." He sighs, laying it on the table and attempting to press it flat with the palm of his hand. "Not many can say that, I suppose." He takes a book from the shelves at random, weighing it down with "Zimmerman's Encyclopedia of Extinct Languages: Esselen – Hanis."

If he's falling asleep sitting up, it's obvious he's not going to accomplish anything else this evening, but at least he can check on Dean. After an admittedly pointless detour to Dean's bedroom, Castiel finds him still holding his uniquely Winchester vigil. He's passed out, cotton jacket balled up under his head so he can sprawl on the ground next to the ashen orange glow of the funeral pyre. Technically, it's still aflame, but Castiel figures it's gone far enough that he can get Dean to come inside.

He kneels down, prodding gently at first, then more insistently when Dean is slow to wake. Finally, a grunt comes from somewhere in the makeshift pillow, followed by a blind hand that would try to wave off the disturbance if it were coordinated enough to pinpoint the source. Castiel can't hold back a half smile. He prods again, and this time the hand goes to Dean's eyes, roughing away sleep until he can look around, confused. For just a moment, he's himself, the hunter taking the lay of the land: alert and clear. Then understanding returns, and he sits up, wobbling for a moment before finding his balance.

"S'up?"

"Time to go inside." Cas uses his most authoritative voice, though it does lack a little something without his true form to back it up.

Dean bends his head from one side to the other, neck cracking. Through a yawn, he replies, "No. Not yet. Still burning." He gathers up his jacket and drapes it over his shoulders, slapping his hands together to warm them.

"Dean, you're exhausted."

Dean glowers at him, though it looks like it takes a bit too much effort to get the eyes, mouth and forehead all on the same page. Then, out of nowhere, he pushes himself to his feet. The way he squares his shoulders and extends bent elbows is a blatant attempt to make himself imposing, like a peacock fanning its tail feathers. It fails miserably. He's been vertical about two seconds when his face pales. He doubles over, managing a couple of clumsy steps before falling to his hands and knees, throwing up a noxious mix of bourbon and bile.

When it's over, a chastened Dean returns to Castiel's side. "Yeah, okay, maybe I should go in." He snatches the bottle before Cas can protest, swishing around a mouthful before spitting it to the side and wiping his chin with his forearm. Then, as simple as that, he stumbles to the door like it was his plan all along.

Castiel catches up, hooking his shoulder under Dean's arm to steady him. They're almost at the sleeping quarters when Dean staggers to a halt, drops his nose directly into his armpit, and sniffs. "Gonna shower."

"I think you should sleep."

"Hell no! I've jacked up everything else. Least my bed don't stink."

"Right." Cas lifts up a bit, shouldering more of Dean's weight, then aims them for the showers. "I'll go with you."

"Aw no, no." Dean makes a gesture that's meant to convey... something. Cas isn't sure what, and he doesn't get a lot of time to think about it because Dean is pulling away. "Dude, I got this."

He slumps backwards, and the wall is just close enough to keep him from hitting the floor. After a false start, he gets a foot high enough to grab it with both hands and tugs hard. Instead of removing a boot, he falls over. He lays there for a moment until his brain and body have caught up with each other. "OK, maybe I could use a little help."

Without a word, Cas hauls Dean up from the floor and helps him to the shower room. There's a changing area outside of the stalls—nothing extravagant, just a wall of open-front wood cabinets and several worn benches—and it's a handy place to sit Dean until they can get him undressed. Bits of mud have mixed with dead leaves and moss, and clumps of it fall from the treads as Cas works off the boots. Dean just sits there, allowing it, which is a small miracle really, so he takes advantage and helps him out of his sweat-damp socks while he's at it.

"Can you take care of the rest?"

Dean nods and pulls off his shirts all at once, leaving them wrong side out on the floor. Somehow the grime has filtered through all those layers to his chest. He looks a bit like he's been mud-wrestling, and the mud won. He puts out a hand, and Cas helps him to his feet, giving him an arm to balance on while shucking the filthy jeans.

"Need help walking to the shower?"

"I got it." He waves at the door dismissively, and Cas takes the hint, pausing only long enough to collect the pile of dirty clothes. As he's about to leave the room, Dean's gruff shout echoes back to him. "Bring me my robe, would ya? Don't wanna freeze my junk off."

Cas stops at the laundry room to add the clothes to a preexisting pile. There are some clean shirts folded on the dryer, and he figures they won't mind him borrowing one, so he deposits his bloodied shirt along with the rest of the whites. It's only then he realizes he could use a shower himself. He's got dirty patches all over his chest where Theo did his carving, and his underarms are fragrant in a socially unacceptable way. Of course, he could clean himself with a thought, but a shower makes more sense. He needs to rebuild his energy reserves.

He takes his time collecting the robe, allowing Dean to shower in privacy. (He's never quite believed Dean could get a bar of soap to fit _there_ , but the intent was probably more relevant than the choice of words). When he figures an appropriate amount of time has passed, he takes the stall furthest from Dean's and washes himself quickly, wanting to be available, just in case. But when he's finished, Dean's shower is still going.

He dries off quickly, pulling his slacks and the borrowed tee shirt over damp skin. Stepping out, the first thing he notices is that Dean's head is no longer visible above the stalls. Trying not to overreact—he's been called special once too often—he walks over as calmly as he can. The curtain is only half pulled, and Dean is sitting on the floor, head bowed, arms folded over drawn-up knees. He doesn't react to Castiel's cleared throat, so Cas leans in and turns off the water. That, at least, gets a response in the form of a sour look. Cas shrugs, lips in an apologetic line to hold back his sigh of relief, then drapes a towel over Dean's shoulders.

"Your robe is here when you're ready."

A short time later, Dean joins him on the bench, slumping down to Castiel's left. "The Technicolor yawn might be going into repeats. Better give it a couple." Dean props his hands on his thighs, elbows bowed out as if the strain of holding himself up is almost too much. Which it may well be, as hard as he seems to be working at breathing. It's slow and deliberate, and, curiously, in something of a counter-rhythm with the drip of water from his hair to the towel around his waist. It's rather fascinating, actually...

"I'm sorry."

Castiel startles at the interruption. "For what?"

Dean is slow to respond, and when he does, his lips are trembling. "You went through hell―literally―to save me, and all I've done is screw up."

Castiel tilts his head, feeling that same, distressingly human sinking in the pit of his stomach. "Dean―" He reaches out a hand, hoping to offer some comfort, but it's pushed away.

"No, man, don't lie or do nice shit. I don't deserve it."

He leans closer instead, to Hell with personal space. "You have been faced with decisions so impossible even King Solomon would have been at a loss. You've sacrificed yourself to save the world. More than once. I don't see how that's screwing up." It comes out angrily, and he's surprised at the strength of his response, but not as surprised as when Dean tries to bolt again.

This time he seems to have regained some muscle control, the shower having probably sobered him up a bit. Instead of falling down, he kicks the side of one of the cabinets and doesn't even flinch. "I didn't sacrifice jack shit!" Without missing a step for what should be one very angry foot, Dean begins stalking back and forth like an animal in a cage. "I chose Sam over shuttin' down Hell. He was this close, and I made him stop! And then--" He punches the wooden panel. "He coulda had some peace, but I wasn't ready to let him go. Hell no! Shit hits the fan, and it's all about Dean!" His voice is like sandpaper over gravel, and he throws another punch. This time, a knuckle splits, leaving a smear of blood behind, and Castiel gets up to stop him. "I brought that jackass here, the first safe place we could ever call our own, and I got Kevin killed."

Cas is able to get an arm out just in time to keep Dean from landing another punch, and the complete shock on Dean's face gives him a fraction of a second to grab him by the shoulders, yanking him away and shoving him against the brick wall. "Kevin's death is not your fault!" His own heart is pounding now, breath quickened, and he's not sure if it's fear that Dean will seriously injure himself, or anger that he's taking blame he doesn't deserve. "You had no idea—"

"—No?" Dean doesn't seem to be the least bit mollified, pupils dilated, upper lip lifted in a snarl. "I coulda manned up. Told him Sam was Zeke's meat suit, but I covered my own ass!" Castiel grips tighter, fingertips digging around clavicles. "He had no ide—"

Why he decides to do what he does next will remain one of those questions Cas asks himself for the rest of his long life, but he does it without conscious awareness, so it must be some lingering trace of human instinct. He takes his hands from Dean's shoulders, only half aware of the white marks left behind because he's grabbing Dean's jaw and pulling their mouths together. It's like tasting electricity. He kisses him, long and hard, applying everything he's learned from observation and the few human encounters he's had, and Dean does not protest. One hand comes up to Cas's shoulder, but that's it. He's participating, not responding. That's enough for Castiel to collect himself.

"What was that for?" All the anger seems to have drained out of Dean now, replaced by a sort of breathless amazement.

Castiel stammers for a moment then finally manages. "I, uh, I initiated intimate contact to bolster your emotional well-being." At that, he backs away, rubbing his neck and bowing his head to avoid making eye contact.

"I ain't drunk enough to fall for a crappy line like that."

Laughing nervously, Cas glances up. Dean is still leaning against the wall, arms loose at his sides. "I'm sorry, Dean. It's difficult sometimes to determine when I should be prosaic, and when I should be more imaginative."

"Always be imaginative when you're trying to get into someone's pants."

"Don't men prefer a more direct approach?"

"Yeah, well, generally, we do, but... Look, I just..." Dean sighs, voice trailing off as he shoulders away from the wall to plod back to the bench.

Cas, however, can't seem to stop explaining himself. His mouth has gone dry, which is very curious, as he's not at all thirsty. He charges onward. "It seemed like the right thing to do. I know I found it very soothing when I was feeling down."

Dean actually laughs. A genuine, full-bellied laugh. He's still doing it as he ties the robe. "I'm drunk. Not that my decisions are so great when I'm sober, but... now's not the time."

"Okay, then." He runs through his mental list of ways he can help, realizes he's pretty much exhausted it, so that really leaves only one thing. "I suppose I'll be going."

Dean's laughter stops cold. "What?"

"I've done all I can do here, and my presence makes the bunker vulnerable." It pains him to admit it, and he really doesn't want to leave, but he won't put Dean at risk.

Dean sags against the wall, wiping his face with an open palm. "That was Ezekiel's thing, not mine." He reels forward as if recovering from a blow, waving his hands angrily. "Probably because you would've figured out he isn't Ezekiel!" He punches another cabinet even as Castiel darts forward to stop him, but it's too late. The fist connects, and this time, there's no adrenaline rush to hide the impact. Dean cringes, cradling the fist in his other hand and hissing through the pain. Cas puts his own hand over Dean's, wishing he had the power to take the pain away, but his hands are shaking more than Dean's. He looks up apologetically. Dean shrugs. "It's okay."

"I can stay?"

"Never shoulda made you leave." He double-checks the knot in his robe then lopes off toward the sleeping quarters. "C'mon. You can use Sammy's room. He won't mind."

They're silent all the way to down the hall. Just as Castiel is about to wish him a good night, Dean pauses. "Hey, you need something to sleep in? I'm guessing you didn't zap yourself here with a suitcase."

"I don't need to sleep." The answer comes automatically, and Castiel almost regrets saying it seeing as he's already dozed off once today, but it's the truth. With grace restored, none of this should be happening to him: not the sleep, the hunger, aches, pains, thirst, or general exhaustion. He shudders.

_**Abomination.** _

"Right. Yeah. You got a Big Gulp of mojo juice," Dean says. He goes to his dresser pulls open a drawer.

"I am tired, though. Torture can be exhausting." By the time Dean straightens up, he's just about got his breathing back under control.

"No shit. Hate those days." He holds out a pair of dark blue sweatpants. "We'll do some laundry tomorrow. The Men of Letters invented some goop that gets blood out like freakin' magic. Saves a boatload on dry cleaning."

"That would be beneficial."

"So." Dean is wearing a stiff smile, and Castiel returns it, glancing around the room at the weapons decorating the walls. The Purgatory blade catches his eye.

"Quite the memento." He motions toward it.

"I wasn't sure it would make it through the portal, but there it is. Been real handy a couple times."

They nod agreement, their shared background as soldiers getting them back on familiar footing. "Well, thank you for these." Cas indicates the pants. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Already morning," Dean replies, raising his brows as he points to the clock on his night table. It reads 3:19 AM.

"Yes, well, later in the morning then." He gives Dean a thumbs up.

Castiel doesn't bother turning on the light in Sam's room. He's already spent enough time in there to know the bed's location. Sam's choice of two thick pillows isn't to his liking, though, so he pushes one aside and props the other against the headboard. His eyes are as tired as the rest of him, and the smoke left them stinging. So he can't help but sigh as he settles on top of the blankets, folding his hands in his lap and finally shutting his eyelids. The darkness and moisture are a balm, and he exhales, slowly and completely. Releasing the stress. Releasing the worry. He's just getting to the point where he feels relaxed when he realizes he needs to urinate.

"There must be a better way to eliminate excess fluid." He grumbles his way from the bed to the door, bemused at the time on Sam's desk clock: 6:05 AM. It doesn't slow his progress to the toilet, though. He waited too long once, and that was one time too many.

He grudgingly relieves his bladder, the anger starting to fester. He wants to shout his frustration, but he knows there's no injustice here. Quite the opposite. He chose to steal someone else's grace; he should be grateful that the worst consequence so far seems to be having to stand at a sink in the middle of the night to wash his hands after performing a distinctly non-angelic task.

_Look, Zeke, or whatever the hell your name is. You know who I'm talking to. I don't give a damn who you are or what you've done, just let my brother go._

His feet are carrying him out the bathroom door before his brain's finished registering that it's Dean praying. Hands still wet, he rushes to Dean's bedroom.

_"You name it, the time, the place, I'll be there. No questions."_

Castiel's accustomed to the dark, but Dean's still hard to find. He isn't in his usual prayer position hunched at the side of the bed, or even on the bed at all. Finally, Cas spots him in the floor, back against the small leather sofa. One knee is drawn up, propping an arm that is holding yet another liquor bottle. His entire body is bowed like he's taken a gut punch, and he's still praying, only now Castiel can hear it firsthand instead of filtered through angel radio.

"I'm Michael's sword, you son of a bitch, and I ain't half dead. So you heal him, you bug out, and you take—"

"No!"

"Shit!" Dean practically jumps out of his skin, the bottle skittering three feet across the floor. Castiel rights it before too much can spill then takes a seat at his side. "Shit," Dean repeats himself, hurrying to dry his face. "Sorry." He's struggling to sound normal, but his throat is clamped so tight that his voice has gone up half an octave.

"Becoming this angel's vessel is not going to solve the problem." Castiel reaches out, placing a still-damp hand on Dean's shoulder, but instead of soothing him, it seems to have the opposite effect. Dean's mouth trembles, jaw straining, then he ducks his head into his elbow.

"Damnit!"

"It's okay, Dean."

"No, it's not okay. Nothing is okay." He growls in frustration. "He's my baby brother. It's my job to protect him not make him a prisoner in his own body."

Cas rubs slow circles on Dean's back, wishing he could do more, but even after becoming human, he really doesn't know enough about the complexities of human emotion to guess what else might be helpful. War he understands, though. All too well. _On Earth as it is in Heaven._ "There are other ways."

"Like what? Cause I'm fresh outta ideas. I don't know what to do, and this is what I do." He stabs a finger into the air. "I keep trying to think of something, but everything I think of is wrong, or it should be, and I don't know. I don't fucking know!" He's struggling to breathe, shoulders hitching as tears stream freely down his face, and Cas moves in closer. "It's driving me nuts because I don't know. I don't trust myself. Every choice I've made has made it worse, and…" He chokes down another sob before wiping a hand down his face. Then he turns away. "You shoulda left me there."

"No!" Castiel climbs over Dean to get back into his line of sight, refusing to let him drop statements like that then block him out. "Absolutely not."

Dean frowns, tilting his head to the side. "You said it yourself. You screwed up everything you did as an angel. Well, here I am." He slaps his chest. "Your living, breathing screw-up, straight from Hell, one night only!"

"You're needed here." By now, he's straddling Dean's legs like he'd straddle an attacker. But instead of throwing a punch, he grabs the arm Dean used to hit himself and braces it so he can't do it again. "Sam needs you."

Dean shakes his head, scowling. "No. He's better off without me." He tries to get up, but Cas has the advantage in this position, and he shoves him back against the couch.

"What the?" Dean struggles, but Cas fights back, holding him in place.

"The world needs you."

"To what? Jumpstart another apocalypse?" He spits it out, this time kicking out a knee and unbalancing Cas. They tumble to the side, and the struggle continues, Dean backhanding him. "Let me go, damnit!"

"No!" It turns into fists and elbows. Bruises are going to be unavoidable. But Castiel doesn't care, because he manages to get Dean's wrists in his hands and pins them to the floor on either side of his head. "Dean, I need you."

There's a beat, a moment of near perfect stillness as something infinitely sad passes across Dean's face, then he surges forward. This time, it's not with fists. The kiss takes Castiel by surprise. It's rough and desperate, not at all like April's tender kisses.

Nor does Dean seem concerned with formalities like lighting candles to set a mood. He grabs the hem of Castiel's borrowed tee shirt and all but tears it off him. The collar catches on his chin, and he has to sit up to free it. Dean follows, strong hands reaching under Castiel's thighs, pulling his legs to either side of his own hips, positioning him the way he wants him before catching the newly exposed skin with an open mouth, biting and sucking until Castiel can do nothing more coherent than groan.

He's never felt anything like it, those rough hands on his chest, thumbs counting his ribs as Dean maps his torso inch-by-inch. Dean Winchester is a force of nature. Castiel knew that the moment he first touched him in Hell. He knew it as Dean drove a demon knife into the heart of his newly-chosen vessel. Even then, Cas still underestimated him. He should know better by now. Should. But he doesn't. And he's laughing at his own stupidity at the same time he's pulling Dean back up, opening his mouth to him and clutching his shoulders to make sure he stays there because he _wants._

He wants this so much it's an ache in his head, his chest, his stomach, and it's only made worse by the way his groin is aching, this alien, visceral reaction that his body is having all on its own. It's not like breathing—so natural and automatic that it can be ignored—this is far more insistent. And Dean _knows_. He understands, scooting forward until Castiel's back is against the foot of the bed, kissing harder, then grinding into that ache, and it's better and worse all at once. Castiel reaches out, grabbing the footboard, raising himself on his knees, and Dean doesn't need asked, fingers already digging under the waistband to yank the borrowed sweatpants down his thighs.

When his hand finds home, the only word Castiel has for it is, "Dean."

He wants to examine the sensation, catalog it, but it's impossible to remain detached. Dean's not even stroking. His hand is wrapped firmly around him. A question, maybe a command, he doesn't know. Dean stares, eyes boring into Castiel's as his mouth hovers just out of range.

"Please."

Dean hums. There's a bit of the devil in it, and it should be terrifying, but it isn't. It's right. Dean moves his hand, and Castiel gasps, thrusting into it, clinging to the bed for leverage. He thrusts again; he is a cell dividing. Another thrust; he's an animal in a blackened cave. Another, and rocks bang together to make a spark.

If the kiss in the locker room was like tasting electricity, this is like drinking grace.

Suddenly, Dean's hand is gone. Castiel is lost, waiting, watching, as Dean strips out of his own pants. The wait is so very worth the reward, though. Castiel heaves forward, pushing Dean to his back. This body, this perfect machine that Cas rebuilt, and now it's his to explore. Not with his true form, titanic, ungainly in this small room, but with human hands, clumsy yet perfect for the task. Stubble, ink trapped under a thin layer of flesh, a burn scar, freckles scattered over his shoulders, leading the eye to a strong sternum, pectoral muscles that twitch when touched, a fine dusting of hairs rising as Castiel breathes on skin, down to the crest of Dean's pelvic bone, so smoothly arched that the only appropriate thing to do is lick it. Dean makes such a beautiful noise that Castiel does it again, enthusiastically sucking away the salt and sweat of him as if it could quench his thirst like that first cool bottle of water.

"Enough." The word is ragged, and Dean pulls him away. But his hand is relaxed, encouraging as it tugs Castiel's mouth back to his. Again with the kissing. So very good with the kissing. Different this time, though. Even as he keeps one hand on Castiel's neck, the other is sliding down between them. Not to stroke, just changing the position of his erection. Then he wraps his leg around Castiel's thigh, and Cas understands.

Begins to move.

He clings to Dean's wrist, trapping it against the concrete, threading their fingers together.

Dean scrapes nails over his shoulder blade, and Cas cries out from the pure good pain of it.

And he's moving.

And the world is moving.

Time stretches out.

There's not enough air in the room.

In the world.

The pleasure, that searing, shattering pleasure, appears in the distance. So close, but not close enough. He reaches out. Wants to unfurl his wings and claim it, but they resist. Weak. Insufficient.

"Let it happen."

His elbows give way, but Dean is there to catch him. Warm and glowing like a beacon and still moving. God, still moving. Against him. With him.

"Like that, Cas. Just like that."

Red shifts to blue.

"Dean."

The universe inhales.

"I know."

Time contracts, and he is quicksilver. Glass shatters.

He is flesh and bone and skin and muscle, and it all takes shape around Dean.

Dean, who is fire.

Dean, whose head is thrown back, frozen except for the pulsing of his carotid.

_Oh, God._

**

For once, Castiel doesn’t fall asleep—he knows that much for certain—but he still feels as if awareness is taking its sweet time coming back. It's like waking up, only slower and softer.

He becomes aware of Dean first, heart beating beneath his own, a warm hand low on his back that's stroking in sloppy circles. He feels a chill coming on. Is sticky. But he doesn't care. It all feels too perfect to move. Scientific understanding tells him this is the flood of post-coital endorphins that promotes pair bonding. Reality tells him that he's too wrung out to consider anything more than Dean standing in for a mattress.

"Uh, Cas, we need to get off the floor before my ass leaves a dent in it."

Somehow, Castiel finds the energy to get up. Truly a miracle in this age. It may have a lot to do with Dean, but he's not entirely sure. Just knows that there's at least one colorful comment made at his expense before they're lying side by side in Dean's bed. Then he's warm again, a blanket covering him, Dean's chest to his back, Dean's breath on his neck, and everything is quiet.

**

Castiel climbs out of bed, refusing to check the clock this time. He finds his clothes still in the random scatter where they landed as Dean removed them. A smile sneaks its way onto his face even as he trudges to the bathroom to relieve himself.

"Enough already."

The toilet doesn’t answer to his complaint, of course. It never does. He pauses at the mirror, splashing his face with hot water and using a handful to help restore his hair to something like order. His mouth tastes disgusting, and, as he's in the process of rinsing it out, he realizes there are three separate stations setup in the bathroom. Each has a white mug which someone has decorated with permanent marker. Kevin's bears a cartoon representation of him wearing a white shirt, black vest, and black pants. A gun is holstered on his thigh, and he's pointing another around the edge of the cup. Sam's has what appears to be a pair of antlers. Dean's has his name over a stylized version of the Greek symbol for "pi." He borrows Dean's toothbrush. There are norms against this, but they just make no sense. They have kissed, what could a toothbrush possibly matter?

Feeling much better with his mouth clean, he starts back towards the sleeping quarters. Halfway there, he's greeted by a whiff of coffee and the clinging aroma of something savory. His stomach growls in response, and he detours to the kitchen.

"Morning." Dean is standing at the stove in his gray robe, a dishtowel tossed over his shoulder. He nods to the table, grin wide and eyes bright. Quite spirited, really. Sexual intimacy does seem to work wonders. And no one has to worry about torture or death the morning after.

Of course, not all his thoughts are so positive. After all, it wasn't April who tried to kill him. There were two Aprils: the sweet woman who fed, sheltered and loved him with her body, and the reaper who murdered him. At least, that's how he likes to think of the situation. He has no way of knowing when the reaper possessed her, or if the real April was ever in there at all. It's horrifying, and he knows he shouldn't dwell on it because there's no way he could have known, but both Aprils left a lasting impression on him.

Dean's much better at avoiding awful truths.

"Bacon's almost done." Despite his stomach's continued interest, Cas is about to point out that he no longer requires food when Dean continues, "Yeah, I know, but you _can_ eat, and you still look pretty wiped. I figure with Heaven on lockdown, and you rockin' the secondhand grace, you're probably not recharging. So you better keep making like a human and take care of that vessel."

Okay, perhaps Dean's much better at facing awful truths, too.

Cas looks down at his body. He hasn't thought of it as a 'vessel' in a very long time. Statistically, it was a blink of an eye, but it's been a very educational blink. He feels more protective than he used to, when it was Jimmy's body and he could fix it with little more than a thought. Now it's his and his alone, and this makes him feel vulnerable in a way he didn't as a human. He expects that it's another one of those 'this way lies madness' subjects and so files it away with the rest.

"Thank you," is all he says to Dean. "I believe that's wise."

Dean turns around, slapping down a plate that is loaded with the better part of a pig.

"Go ahead. We're out of bread, though. Kevin finished it off last—" The smile vanishes. Dean swallows hard and quickly returns to the stove. "Anyhow, I'll make some eggs, and we can get down with our carnivorous selves."

Castiel takes a piece of bacon. He intends to take a reasonably-sized bite and chew it properly, but the ravenous beast living in his stomach decides it's better to stuff in the entire slice.

This seems to please Dean to no end, and the smile comes back for a visit. A pile of egg shells is next to the old cast iron skillet, and one topples down to the floor while he collects the coffee. He brings the pot and two mugs to the table, then, just as smoothly as if it had been choreographed, he's back at the stove to stir the eggs.

"There's milk in the fridge. Don't know what you take in yours, but at least it's whole milk, not that watery white shit that Sam—" He slams down the spatula, takes a deep breath, then scoops up the eggshells and tosses them into the trash. When he returns to the table with the cooked eggs, he appears to be perfectly content other than the beer he's brought along with him. "Eat up. I fried the eggs in the bacon grease. Nothin' better, man."

Cas is too hungry to question having beer at breakfast; he's just pleased that Dean seems to be coping better than before. Besides, he wasn't lying about the eggs. They're delicious. Tender, not those spongy lumps that come in the microwave breakfast burritos. It's real food, and he's no fool when it comes to making sure he's fed. Not anymore. He loads a second scoop onto his plate and digs in.

When they finish, he kicks Dean out of the kitchen and does the cleanup himself. It's the least he can do. It doesn't hurt that the dishes are either washed or they aren't: no gray areas, no repercussions. He's learned to appreciate those small triumphs.

Afterward, he goes to the library. Dean's there in his robe, hunched over the table. But he's not actually doing anything besides staring into space and sipping a glass of bourbon.

Cas sits in the chair to his right, and Dean says nothing, so he takes that as his cue to focus on the job in front of them. The notes cover all three known tablets, but they seem to be cast about at random. The same applies for the books Dean's added to the pile. It's chaos, therefore order is required. Cas works for several minutes but doesn't make much progress. Dean's logic is usually pretty direct. Today, not so much. There are about twice as many piles as there are tablet categories, and they all seem to overlap in one way or another.

"I still got no idea where to start." Dean purses his lips, brows drawing together as he shakes his head.

"I can tell." Cas leans his elbows on the table, clasping his hands loosely. "I would think the most important thing we can do is find Sam."

"There's an angel driving the bus, and he's got an all-access pass to Sammy's brain."

"And I'm an angel again. That's almost as good as having an all-access pass to the bus driver's brain." Dean shrugs in acknowledgment, not looking particularly convinced. "Sam's distinctiveness is to our advantage. For once. Put out word with the hunters that you need information on his movements."

"As many wanna kill him as help us. We've not exactly made friends. 'Specially not him."

Castiel stills himself, trying not to be frustrated by Dean's stubbornness. "Then only call the hunters you know will help. I'm sure Garth will be useful." Dean readies another protest, but Cas interrupts him, hand in the air. "Dean, you said you don't know where to start." He stares him down. "I'm telling you where."

"Right," Dean replies half under his breath. He takes a sip of his bourbon before motioning the glass in Castiel's direction, a magnanimous gesture of 'please continue.'

Castiel takes Dean's blank notepad and begins making a list like the ones Nora gave him for his duties at the Gas-n-Sip. At first he'd found it insulting—after all, he'd commanded garrisons for Heaven without so much as a scrap of paper—but trying to remember not to bag cleaning supplies with bread, or not to shout across the store for a price check on feminine hygiene products when a man was purchasing them, well, it's no wonder the Levites were such a bitter crowd.

"After calling Garth, you should ward the bunker against angels," Cas continues. Dean glares at him but, blessedly, says nothing. "You need to protect Kevin's notes in case this angel realizes he left them behind."

"Okay, no, I get it, but I'm not warding the bunker against you. I ain't kickin' you out a third time."

"Thank you." If his voice cracks too obviously, Dean doesn't mention it.

"We can ward a box. That'll be enough. Hell, the Men of Letters probably already have one."

"We should also decide how we'll approach things once we locate Sam."

"What if Fake Zeke bails but Sammy's not strong enough?"

"Then we don't take any chances. You still have holy oil?"

"A little. Enough for a circle. A small one." Dean leans back, relaxing a little with the familiar comfort of strategy.

Assuming the oil is still in the Impala, Castiel adds checking the trunk to the list. He writes the number four, circles it, then chews on the pen cap as he thinks about next steps. It tastes no better than the last time he tried it, so he switches to looking around at the books, walls, even doorways. Then it comes to him. "There's some type of warded room here, right? A safe place for prisoners?"

"Yeah, but there's no room at the inn."

"Who or what is occupying it?"

"Crowley."

Castiel nearly chokes on his own saliva. "Crowley is here? The King of Hell, is here, in the bunker?"

"Yeah." Dean's got his hand over his chin, idly scratching at his beard. "We've had him since the third trial, and I'm not letting him go, so--"

"If he's been around Sam since he was possessed, then he might have an idea who we're dealing with."

"No, he's completely powered down. Warded chains, Devil's Trap, the works. He can't tell you what day it is, let alone reach out with his Spidey senses."

Although he knows Dean won't like hearing it, Cas adds, "If we free him, he's not cut off from his power source."

"And how does that help anyone besides Crowley?"

"There's an incantation to exorcise angels from their vessels. Alastair nearly succeeded in using it on me." He lets that settle on Dean for a minute; the memories of that night are not good for either of them. "For obvious reasons, I can't be the one to speak it, but if he had enough power, then the King of Hell certainly does."

Dean's laugh is caustic. "Great. Just great. Just effin' typical." He swallows the rest of his bourbon before slamming the glass onto the table. "Another goddamned deal with a demon. Let's take the hole I've dug myself into and make it a pit while we're at it."

"If we're fortunate enough to get to that point, then I'll... I'll make the deal."

"Absolutely not! This is my mess, and I will fix it."

"If I'd listened to Naomi's warning, like you did, there wouldn't have been an angel in need of a vessel."

Dean closes his eyes. He is tense, jaw clenched, but he blows out a breath and settles himself back down. "You know, you really should be looking out for yourself."

"I am." Cas rests a hand on top of Dean's. "If anyone on Earth can help me fix things in Heaven, it's you."

"Shouldn't you be focused on getting your own grace back?"

"I should, yes, but that's not a priority."

"The Hell it ain't, Cas." He yanks his hand away. "I can do the math. How long before your face starts melting off or your brain pushes the frappe button?"

Cas stares at the table. "That shouldn't be a problem. I believe it's more a matter of morality than… than metaphysics."

Dean looks him over, maybe searching for a lie, maybe just trying to make sense of the half-truth. Cas isn't sure, and he's explained as much as he can. After a long stretch of uncomfortable silence, Dean leans back, tapping a fingertip on the table. "So, we put out a hunter APB, we lock up Kevin's notes, grab the angel glue, and think about a little wheelin' and dealin' with Crowley. Bit thin, even for me."

"It's enough to start with. We'll refine it as we go."

"Okay." He puts his hands on his knees and pushes out of his chair. "I'll call Garth."

As Dean walks away, Cas slides over Kevin's notes from the angel tablet, figuring that's the most important place to put his attention. But it's hard to focus on the work because he can't get past the feeling that he has disappointed Dean. Again. Not the plan: if Dean didn't think it was the right process to follow, he wouldn't have put it into motion. No, it's something more fundamental. He was perfectly content to let Cas touch him until he realized he wasn't actively seeking his own grace.

_**Abomination.** _

He's not worthy of Dean's boundless faith in him. Has never been. But he lifts his head up, squares his shoulders, and gets back to work. He can be. Someday.

"Well..." Dean strolls back into the room ten minutes later. "Once I calmed Garth down, he put on his Bobby hat and said he'd make the right calls to the right peeps." He's got two beers between his fingers, and he sits one down in front of Castiel before slumping back into his chair. "He used 'peeps' in a sentence. Unironically. Some days I do not get that kid."

Something warms inside Castiel at the sight of the brown bottle, condensation already forming on the silver and blue label at its neck. "He is a good man." He means Garth, of course, but it's not the only person he means.

Dean meets his eyes, a crooked smile on his face. "Yeah. He is."

They both reach for their beers at the same time, but Dean is the first to sit his back down.

"Look, I just wanted to say... last night? Thanks for gettin' in the foxhole with me."

Cas is careful to put his bottle far away from the prophet's notes before replying. It also gives him time to figure out what Dean is talking about. Yes, they're at war, but... foxholes? "Oh, wait, this another of your metaphors, isn't it? Or is it a euphemism?" Dean chuckles, shaking his head. "Right. I guess both. Well, good. You're welcome."

"Do you always blast out the light bulbs?"

"Sorry about that."

"It was weird but flattering." He swishes around a mouthful of beer, thinking it through before swallowing. "Okay, mostly weird, but, still, a notch in the ol' bedpost, I guess."

Cas takes a deep, deep drink, hoping the beer will kick in before social rules dictate he must provide a reply. Sadly, it doesn't, and Dean is smirking at him when he looks up. "I can't say for sure that it wouldn't happen again, if I were to get into, well, another foxhole. I haven't had a lot of experience as an angel. Or as a human, for that matter. But if—"

"Yeah. About that. You know, you didn't have to do that. For me, I mean. I can be cheered up other ways."

"It wasn't just for you."

Dean gulps. "Oh."

Another stretch of uncomfortable silence follows. This time, Dean doesn't break it, and Cas is at a loss for the words he could use to break it himself. Finally, he gives up on trying and begins shuffling through stacks of Enochian, Greek, Latin, and proto-Elamite cuneiform. He does not actually comprehend anything he's reading; it's just to keep himself busy so he doesn't have to watch Dean leave, and it doesn't take long before he hears a chair sliding out from the table.

Castiel takes a deep breath as quietly as possible, just to steel himself, but it comes out as a gasp when Dean thumps his shoulder. Startled, Cas looks up. Dean is smiling down at him.

"Guess I'd better stock up on light bulbs, huh?"


End file.
